


Sanguine Butterflies

by Lex Vale (deductively)



Category: Fullmetal Alchemist (Anime 2003), Fullmetal Alchemist - All Media Types
Genre: Gen, Heavy Angst, Implied/Referenced Suicide, venting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-19
Updated: 2018-02-19
Packaged: 2019-03-21 03:51:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 997
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13732548
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deductively/pseuds/Lex%20Vale
Summary: Hooray for vent writingI know this probably isn't good but I was feeling super crappy (well, am, but anyway) and I figured while I was writing it I might as well post itSoYeahI won't even say I hope y'all enjoy it because that's not really the point of it??  So yeahOh and also sanguine can be like "yay optimism" but in this case it means "blood red"so likeBlood Red Butterflies





	Sanguine Butterflies

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Moistang](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Moistang/gifts).



Hasty chicken scratch written in ink the color of the blood running from his veins, down his hands, marring the pure white fabric of his glove.  It was barely legible.  He didn't have time to mull over its contents, not before he'd overthink it and change his mind.

 

_THE BLOOD THE BLOOD THE BLOOD THE BLOOD THE BLOOD_

 

Everything was so hazy, oh God, his mind was so hazy.  Dizzy.  He tried to breathe, as he'd been taught so many times, by so many people.   _So many that are dead or will die._   And he was just a walking corpse, a zombie feigning human qualities.  Trying to pretend he had dreams of a future he'd create when all he could see when he closed his eyes was the blood of everyone he'd killed, all the nameless, faceless lives he'd taken.  They should've simply been ghosts to him as they seemed to be to everyone else.  But he could still remember the screams.  The column of smoke and flame, the rain of ashes, the blood, the tears, the fear rolling down their cheeks and dripping onto the ground as the pure white coat billowed behind him, untainted, no blood to speak of.   _I didn't touch them and I killed so many, I killed more than anyone.  They call me the hero.  No.  No, I'm not . . ._

Salt stung in the wound, salt of his own creation, from his own eyes.  All the memories mixed with the life draining from him, streaking along his paling skin.  He could remember, God, why couldn't it just go away?  The sound of the voice over the phone.  Far off.  Distant.  It couldn't have been true.

_"Lieutenant Colonel Maes Hughes is dead, sir.'_

The way Maes suddenly took on the expressions of the dying Ishvalans.  The rage, the terror, the realization that no amount of willpower would save him.  He'd never get to say goodbye.  Would his daughter even remember him?  Or will she just see the faint glow of a father's smile, the residual warmth of his embrace?  Will she always be empty, because she saw them burying him, without understanding why?

 

_And it's all your fault._

 

Illegible.  Worthless, scribbled apologies.  He could've burned it then and there if he had the strength, but his hand wouldn't move to burn anything.  Not now, not as the flashbacks overpowered him, plunging him into an ocean of memories that completely disabled him.   _There are no flames here._   His fingers twitched around the gun's grip.  Bloody gloves.  Bloody white gloves.  Purity, forever stained.  A smile almost like a grimace grew upon his lips.  It was about time.

 

_To whom it may concern . . ._

 

A bullet hole had already formed in his head, sending spider cracks in the glass, attracting attention.  "What was that?  Colonel, is everything all right?"  Yes.  The mirror broke.  With just one small tug of his finger, he'd obliterated his soul.  Now he had nothing left.  Roy Mustang was no more; he had little control over his body.  He'd given it up to Anguish.  It took hold of the gun, turned the husk to stare at its broken self.  But what was left of him, the Flame Alchemist, future Furher, "Hero" of Ishval, beamed.  Anguish's dead eyes stared back, decoded the silent message.   _Finish it._

For all he'd done.  For every person he'd hurt, everyone he'd failed to save.  For him, if no one else.

It didn't concern anyone.

 

_I don't know who this letter is meant to be for.  It started with "to whom it may concern", but honestly, it doesn't apply to any of you.  Those who are alive anyway._

_So I suppose, if it's for anyone, it's meant for Maes._

_Where do I begin?  With the sad excuses for apologies?  With the "I love you"s and the "thank you"s?  None of it suffices.  These notes are pointless.  There isn't an excuse for being too cowardly to face your emptiness, and that doesn't exclude me.  I think about these things, these never-ending nightmares that I've forced upon others.  I still have nightmares.  What about Riza, who had to see people collapse at the barrel of a sniper gun they didn't even know was aimed at them?  Or you, who saw a child your own daughter's age, turned into a chimera through human experimentation and murdered?  You died prematurely; had you survived your encounter, I doubt you would've been this foolish.  You would've seen what you had as a blessing instead of as something you didn't deserve.  You were always better than me in that way.  Most everyone is.  Pathetic of me, really, how I never learn to see things through your eyes._

_I think I was right.  Your eyes are lighter than mine for a reason.  Yours reflect the light onto others; mine absorb and eradicate it._

_I stated that these notes are pointless, and yet . . . I rewrote it over and over trying to find the right thing to say, as most people do.  The hypocrisy is astounding._

_If you see me in the next life, please don't tell me you love me.  Don't say all of those things we should've said.  It wouldn't matter, it wouldn't change a damn thing._

_I won't ask anyone to forgive me.  Cowardice is unforgivable, to be frank._

_Take care._

_\- RM_

* * *

 

"Yo."

He told him not to.  He told Maes not to, but he was holding him close, running his fingers through his hair, letting the tears soak his uniform.  He hated it.  He hated Maes.  He hated . . .

"I read it.  And if you thought I would listen just because you didn't want me feeling guilty, then you're clearly as much of a blockhead as  _you_ think  _I_ am."

He said it like they weren't both dead, like he wasn't half-leading, half-dragging his best friend— _more?_ —into the afterlife.  Lying to himself.  To both of themselves.  Sanguine butterflies that had painted the walls peeled themselves away, fluttering around them.

 

". . . maybe we can try again?"

 

**Author's Note:**

> Hooray for vent writing  
> I know this probably isn't good but I was feeling super crappy (well, am, but anyway) and I figured while I was writing it I might as well post it  
> So  
> Yeah  
> I won't even say I hope y'all enjoy it because that's not really the point of it?? So yeah
> 
> Oh and also sanguine can be like "yay optimism" but in this case it means "blood red"  
> so like  
> Blood Red Butterflies


End file.
